After Atlas

Maybe one day I’ll be able to live somewhere with a garden. I’ll be old but skilled enough to still have some consultancy work to pay for the space to grow real food. Hands in the dirt again. Doing something real. No people around. Yeah, that’s the dream. Strange how the things we rail against and hate in our youth can be the things we crave as we get older.

I made a mistake when I was young and didn’t know how the world worked and I have paid for it. Many, many times over.

Don’t believe anything on the news feeds. It’s all just a circus for the masses.

I’ve grown out of seeking emotional self-destruction. But even now the doubts are slithering in, making me question whether the hellish foundation my life is built on genuinely equates to coping.

I know enough to never take journalists at their word.

Nobody does emotional distancing from reprehensible behavior better than the British, after all.

Show me a person who doesn’t have ongoing problems and I’ll show you an AI.

The priest didn’t have one of the magic gems stitched into his head though, because he thought that talking to everyone else meant that you never listened to yourself anymore.

Everybody is on a leash. Some are more obvious than others.

I hate dealing with these people.

No, I hate dealing with people, but the rich ones are the worst.

The car takes us along a long, winding drive, the kind reserved for the sort of place owned by people who want you to spend the last minutes of your journey appreciating just how rich they are.

She speaks with the authority of the ignorant.

I often expect the worst. This is one of the rare times when I’m hoping for it.